


Exposed

by unchainedbombmom



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-デュラララ!!×２ 結 | Durarara!!x2 Ketsu, Shizaya Week, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:13:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27885082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unchainedbombmom/pseuds/unchainedbombmom
Summary: When he turned around, vaguely annoyed for no reason (or for so many reasons that his brain simply didn’t have enough capacity to apprehend all at once), Izaya was smiling at him wryly.“What?”, Shizuo said curtly.“Only one room left. Heater is broken.”(in which Shizuo and Izaya are stranded in a run-down motel, without means to fend off the ruthlessness of Russian winter.)[For Shizaya Week 2020. Day 3: Hurt-Comfort / Injury]
Relationships: Heiwajima Shizuo & Orihara Izaya, Heiwajima Shizuo/Orihara Izaya
Comments: 23
Kudos: 150
Collections: Shizaya Week 2020





	1. dusk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Izayainpajamas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izayainpajamas/gifts).



> Dedicated to the one and only @Izayainpajamas, my partner in crime. Sorry I (half) forgot your birthday and didn't finish this fic on time. I hope you know you mean the world to me.

Shizuo could feel the prickling burning sensation on his back growing worse by the second. Given how his body worked, it probably wouldn’t take long for him to recover from an acid attack, but that piece of knowledge didn’t prevent Shizuo from getting _deservedly_ irritable. He turned his head to the side and scowled at the flea in the driver’s seat. 

“Can you drive any faster?” 

Keeping his hands firmly on the steering wheel, Izaya replied with a mocking smile. 

“Asking a cripple to speed in a blizzard? How very charming, Shizu-chan.” 

And yet he drove the car with the utmost ease, unthinkable of a self-acclaimed cripple. Shizuo grunted, not wanting to admit the lack of rationality in his demand. Gusts of snow relentlessly smacked the car window, and Shizuo could only glance at the trees shaking violently against an empty, stark white landscape for so long before he got bored. He huffed in annoyance, arms crossing, eyes staring straight at the space beyond the windshield. 

“Try not to brood so much," Izaya broke the silence after a while, throwing a brief gaze tinged with derision at his unwilling companion. “At least they must have lost track of us by now.” 

“Yeah, so what? We’re gonna be stranded in this fucking snowstorm anyway," barked Shizuo as he eyed the needle on the gas gauge which was moving dangerously close to the letter “E”. 

“Come now, Shizu-chan, don’t be so pessimistic,” Izaya said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Is that burn on your back bothering you that much? Who would have thought a monster like you is not insusceptible to pain? I should have dumped you in a pool of acid back then."

As Izaya finished the sentence with a dramatic sigh, Shizuo glowered at him, hands tightening into fists.

"Ungrateful bastard. If I hadn't been there to cover your sorry ass, your mouth would have been burned to a crisp and you wouldn't be sitting here sprouting bullshit."

“I sure am very appreciative of your gallantry,” drawled Izaya with a trace of easily detectable sarcasm. “But Shizu-chan, are you sure you didn’t simply move out of animal instinct?” 

Shizuo threw a punch at the glove compartment, effectively destroying it as a result. Izaya froze momentarily, which didn’t escape Shizuo’s notice, but he thought nothing of it.

“Could you please stop making a fuss in the car?”, Izaya quickly regained composure and said, “And sit straight up. You don’t want your skin to come in contact with the leather.” 

“I saved your worthless insect life and that’s how you talk to me?” 

“Shizu-chan, didn't I commend your heroic act just a moment ago?”, Izaya said nonchalantly. “By the way, I know you are not capable of listening to logical reasoning, but kindly remember you are stuck here until I drag you back home. You’d be sorry if something bad happens to me.” 

I want you _dead._ Shizuo had to swallow back down the retort he desperately wanted to spit in Izaya’s face. It was certainly not pleasant to be reminded of his current situation, especially by the pest himself, in his usual calm, sardonic and _rage-inducing_ manner of speaking. As much as he hated to admit, Shizuo was, indeed, at the godforsaken flea’s mercy. That fact alone was enough to make his blood curdle with indignation, and it took every bit of control in him to stop himself from bashing Izaya’s face in. 

“See, life isn’t as bad as you think it is,” Izaya grinned as he directed Shizuo’s attention to a neon sign with Russian characters blinking in blue and pink lights. “Isn't it nice to know we're not sleeping in the car tonight?"

"I'm already in hell, stuck with Satan himself," Shizuo grumbled. "And maybe they don't have any room left." 

"We shall see," Izaya shrugged and maneuvered the car into the tiny parking lot of what seemed like a run down motel.

He slowly moved his aching legs out of the car, shuddered as the cold air hit him in the face and reached for his crutches. Izaya couldn’t help but lament the loss of his beloved wheelchair as he dragged his feet on the ground along with the pair of crutches he hasn’t got used to using yet. The oh-so-comfortable custom-made wheelchair that has accompanied Izaya for the last three years was rendered unusable after the last gunfight. But at least it wasn’t him who got hit by a bullet. Besides, a wheelchair could be quite inconvenient, especially when there was no one to help him take it in and out of the car. And what if there was no possibility to charge its battery along the way? His arms have gotten sore, what with the cold weather and strenuous activities he put them through these days. He couldn’t expect Shizu-chan of all people to assist him, could he? 

Izaya trudged through the door, a scowling Shizuo in tow. He conversed with the receptionist amicably in a string of Russian that Shizuo naturally couldn’t understand. The blond man looked around the dinky hall with a surly expression, then for some reason decided to fix his gaze on a fly landing on the yellowish sofa in the corner. Why the hell was it so big? Was it even a fly? Was it mutated? Must everything in this country be stupidly huge? Gigantic buildings, stocky men in their bulky coats, mini helicopter-sized flies. Heck, even the bananas placed on the table over there are unnecessarily long. When he turned around, vaguely annoyed for no reason (or for so many reasons that his brain simply didn’t have enough capacity to apprehend all at once), Izaya was smiling at him wryly. 

“What?”, Shizuo said curtly. 

“Only one room left. Heater is broken.” 

Face darkening at Izaya's words, Shizuo, again, for the hundredth time that day, had to wring every drop of willpower out of his body to not land his punch on a nearby surface, preferably the flea’s annoying face, but even he wasn’t irrational enough to blame the fact that this motel only had one room left on Izaya. To be fair, there was a raging snowstorm outside. Then again, who could know for sure? The flea himself was a harbinger of doom. Maybe it was his fault that the weather was so shit in the first place. 

At long last, Shizuo loosened his clenched fists, gave a sigh of resignation and looked away. Izaya exchanged a few more words with the receptionist, then handed the key to Shizuo. 

"Room 4213. Rinse your back with cool water. Be quick, though I guess damage has already been done."

"Where are you going?", Shizuo asked as Izaya turned on his feet. 

"Later, Shizu-chan," he chirped and walked back out the door.

Shizuo stepped into the elevator and questioned no further. Every second away from Izaya is a second to be savored. He made a beeline to the room at the end of the corridor, peeled the jacket off his back as carefully as he could and went to the bathroom. He wanted to examine the burn in front of the mirror, but it was too dark to see anything, since the light bulb inside was broken. At least the shower still worked. The water was freezing, but a relief to his burning back. Shizuo heaved out a sigh, his head going blank for a brief moment before the hectic stream of recent occurrences came rushing back to mind. 

Ikebukuro seemed like a lifetime ago. Everything has been in a blur since he met Izaya again, the circumstances in which it happened he couldn’t have for the life of him imagined. The flea didn’t go back to Ikebukuro, and it wasn’t as if Shizuo had actively sniffed him out so as to annihilate him once and for all, either. Their final battle to the death came to an end without either party dying, thus remaining devoid of closure. But Shizuo didn’t give a damn about closure. He wanted Izaya out of his life, and that was it. The pest could drop dead in a ditch or wreak havoc somewhere else for all he cared. The only thing that mattered was his own damn peace of mind, which could only be achieved when Izaya wasn’t around. He should have eradicated the pest, pulverized him into dust and swept his entire existence off the Earth’s surface when he had the chance. He ought to have known Izaya would somehow worm his way back into Shizuo’s life and make it fester. Even if that wasn’t the flea’s intention, well, the cruel hand of fate would pull Shizuo back to an unresolved fight with the very personification of a plague still. 

Izaya wasn’t the same person he had been three years ago, Shizuo realized as much. He was sitting in a wheelchair, pale as a ghost, flinching at the sight of his long absent nemesis, yet that familiar scornful smile didn’t take long to crawl its way to the corner of his lips, and there he was, just as how Shizuo remembered him. During the course of the last few days where they unfortunately had to endure each other’s presence, Shizuo vaguely perceived that there was something off with the flea, something which probably had no relation to him being confined in his stupid wheelchair. They didn’t talk about Izaya’s physical predicament. In fact, there wasn’t much to say, save for insignificant insults and threats shuffling back and forth. Shizuo didn’t have it in him to hold a conversation with someone like the flea for an extended period of time, neither did he feel the need for an explanation. Why would he want to know what happened to Izaya anyway? Even if Shizuo was the one who landed him in a wheelchair, what of it? He reaped what he sowed. Shizuo had no sympathy to spare for someone who had tried to asphyxiate him. 

Shizuo closed his eyes and let the cool water sooth his burning back. Streets of Ikebukuro and faces of people he held dear flashed through his mind, offered him a moment of solace. Soon enough this nightmare would pass and he would be home again, flea be damned. 

*

Izaya got back into the car, pressing his palm on the forehead as a throbbing pain started forming behind his eyes. The headache has been lingering for days and no doubt must have been worsened by constant exposure to cold weather. He had been hoping it would pass without causing too much trouble, but the pain has grown so intense and persistent that he couldn’t ignore it anymore. It started getting harder to breathe through the passage supplied by nature, and the frigid air he struggled to inhale irritated his throat terribly. Izaya realized a little too late that he was at the onset of a nasty cold. 

He had learned from the receptionist that there was a gas station nearby, where he could stock necessary supplies for upcoming snowed-in days. The motel didn’t provide meals, and Izaya would most certainly need some cold medicine and painkiller. He let out a small sigh and started the car. The protozoan idiot he had for a “travelling partner” didn’t know how to drive, as expected of a caveman not yet acquainted with civility. Even if he did, what would compel him to do anything for Izaya? He had never succeeded in manipulating the beast in the past, and sure enough, Shizuo wouldn’t be swayed if Izaya were to croak out a pathetic plea in his raspy voice now (as if he would ever allow himself to stoop that low). 

He smiled bitterly at the flapping glove compartment cover that could no longer be properly closed. It was a miracle that Shizuo hadn’t laid a finger on him for the entire time they were stuck together, though Izaya’s provocation must have struck a nerve or two, maybe even three. The violence freak was close to losing it a few times, Izaya could tell. So Shizuo didn’t feel the need to attack him? Out of a sense of superiority? Because guilt or pity couldn’t be the reason. The beast might be capable of complex human emotions other than pure rage and hatred, but never in this lifetime would he direct those at Izaya, and that was how he prefered things to be anyway. His knuckles turned white as another wave of pain threatened to split his head open, the headache always seemed to intensify whenever he thought about Shizuo. Izaya blinked away the lightheadedness that followed and tried to focus on the slippery road ahead while snowflakes kept piling up on the windshield.

The sun had set by the time Izaya limped out of the convenience store, the straps of two vinyl shopping bags wrapped around his wrist. He quickly put the bags on the passenger's seat and started pumping gasoline into the tank. Izaya raised his head to a pinkish grey sky amidst a furious snowstorm for a moment, then casted his eyes downward to concentrate on the task at hand. He leaned on the crutch, tired and sore all over, but couldn’t let the exhaustion get the better of him yet, as he must be responsible for dragging himself back to the motel. Thankfully, the drive was tolerable after he took the much-needed painkiller. 

Izaya staggered out of the car, head spinning. He felt feverish, but told himself he could live with it, since the headache had subsided and the low-grade fever warmed his face up a bit. A curious restlessness arose in his aching legs, which he took little notice of, as they have never stopped hurting since three years ago. He had gotten better at managing the pain over the years. Besides, the doctors had assessed that half of his physical suffering had to do with his mental state. Izaya knew he wasn’t as miserable as he felt, and so most of the time deemed it safe to ignore whatever was going on with his body. 

Izaya fumbled through the corridor on his crutches, heart sinking to the ground at the thought of having to share a room with Shizuo. It was unlikely that he could muster enough strength to annoy the beast so much that he had to leave the room on his own accord, and the possibility of being thrown out of the window couldn’t be ruled out, either. He would need to tread on eggshells if he wanted to sleep this fever off. Izaya sighed, then turned his head to the door to the laundry room as if suddenly remembering something. 

*

Shizuo stepped out of the bathroom to an Izaya sitting on the bed. Now that he has calmed down somewhat, Shizuo realized it was the only bed in the room. He finally looked around to examine his surroundings, and to his utter chagrin, this cupboard-sized space contained nothing but a double bed in the middle and a mustard-colored sofa by the window, which certainly was too tiny even for a person of average height. He glared at Izaya, who was sifting through a bunch of clothing articles with his bony hands.

“Where the hell did you get these from?”, Shizuo asked. 

Izaya rolled his eyes. 

“I dug them up from the ground,” he said, lifting a grey sweater to his nose to sniff, then nonchalantly folded it and put it to a pile on his right side. 

Shizuo crossed his arms, as if demanding an explanation. Izaya didn’t look at him, elected to pick up a hideous Minions boxer on top of the clothing bundle and casually threw it into the air, which accurately landed on Shizuo’s face and filled his nostrils with a floral scent of laundry detergent. 

“You stole them,” Shizuo said, half incredulously, half angrily. 

“And? What am I supposed to do? Wearing the same clothes for days? Marching around in my birthday suit? Shizu-chan is an ape, so he might not get this, but we humans have something called common sense,” Izaya said. 

“Is it common sense to fucking steal?”, Shizuo said brusquely. 

“Sure, one needs to make rational choices,” Izaya shrugged. “Besides, I’m sure you still remember who left our suitcases behind. Or could it be,” he feigned a gasp, “your pea-sized brain doesn’t have the capacity to store memory of something that happened yesterday?” 

“Shut the hell up,” Shizuo growled, “You run your mouth as if everything were my fault. What about you? Where have you been, huh? Why didn’t you take the damn suitcases with you?” 

“I was occupied,” Izaya gestured vaguely to the crutches leaning against the bed and deadpanned, “with walking."

Shizuo bit his lips in annoyance, knowing Izaya had made a damn fair point. He turned his attention to the boxer in his hand. The obnoxious yellow creatures shaped like mini sausages seemed to jeer at him. Shizuo's face cracked into a menacing smile as veins started popping on his temples. 

"Izaya," he lowered his voice, "This goddamn thing has holes in it."

"You don't like it?" Izaya cocked his head to the side with feigned innocence. 

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

Izaya answered Shizuo’s rhetorical question with a wave of his hand.

"Already did. Not a fun experience."

Eyes travelling from Shizuo's slightly damp blond hair to his waistband, Izaya continued.

“You should be more respectful towards clothes. Every piece of garment says something about the person who wears it. Also,” he pouted, “Would it hurt to show some gratitude? You don’t know how long I had to stand there to find something that matches your hair color and everything.” 

His gaze faltered dangerously at the crotch point of Shizuo’s pants, but the latter didn’t seem to notice. The standing man’s face turned bright red regardless, and he threw the boxer - now crumpled like a ball of tissues - at Izaya’s head. It didn’t hit him of course, as he managed to dodge quite gracefully as usual. Izaya’s thin lips curved into a smug smile, hand reaching into pocket for his knife, which prompted Shizuo to stomp over. But before he could reach the bed, the flea had already flung something at him again. 

Shizuo was about to ignore whatever it was that just hit him in the face, thinking Izaya must have a death wish for pulling the same prank on him twice, but stopped in his tracks when his eyes accidentally dropped on a pack of roller bandage on the floor. 

“What is this?”, Shizuo asked, knowing exactly what it was but still looking dubiously at the white package under his feet. 

“Why even bother having eyes? Use that to wrap your burn,” Izaya yawned into his elbow. 

“Why would I need this shit?” 

“That’s right, you probably don’t,” Izaya rubbed his eyes with small fists, “Just don’t get an infection and die on me. We have a deal, remember? Though I guess I’m an idiot for thinking Shizu-chan could die so easily. My head is really messing with me these days…,” he rambled on sleepily and stifled another yawn. 

Shizuo ignored him and opened the package. He didn’t need it, but he also didn't want his skin to stick to his shirt. He clumsily wrapped the gauze around his torso while Izaya watched him from the bed with droopy eyes. 

“You belong in a zoo, Shizu-chan. I bet the apes wouldn’t be able to tell the differences between you and one of their kind.” 

“Apes are smart, you dipshit,” Shizuo said offensively, not even properly reacting to Izaya’s insult, apparently because he was too focused on dressing his wound. 

“See? You’re even defending them, like a true friend,” Izaya giggled. 

Shizuo turned around and looked daggers at the man on the bed, who was still wearing his thick fur-lined parka and covering half of his face in a scarf, even though he had been inside for longer than twenty minutes. 

“And you look like an ugly raccoon.” 

Izaya huffed out a laugh at Shizuo’s childish remark, but said nothing more. He untied his laced boots, carefully lifted his aching legs up with both hands and arranged them on the bed so that they were tucked neatly under the cover, then finally took off his jacket and scarf, shivered slightly as he did so. Chilled and exhausted, Izaya drew the comforter up to his chin and fell asleep almost instantly. 


	2. nightfall

By the time Shizuo was done bandaging himself, Izaya was dead to the world, only a few tufts of black hair poking out from under the white comforter were visible. Shizuo considered tossing the blanket cocoon with Izaya inside on the sofa so that he could have the bed for himself, but eventually decided against it. He was in no mood for childish squabbles. Besides, Shizuo was a bit concerned that he might damage Izaya's legs severely if he was being too rough. The pest was a big enough pain in the ass as things stood. A flea unable to walk by himself could only mean trouble for Shizuo.

He glanced annoyedly at the small pile of clothing Izaya had shoved to the other side of the bed earlier, thinking he should return it to the laundry room where Izaya must have stolen it from. Shizuo was no thief, damnit. What would Kasuka think of this? But the flea was right, they couldn’t go without clothes. Shizuo grumbled under his breath as he put on a generic black pullover, albeit a bit too big on him. He had thought Izaya would try to irritate him by giving him no choice but to wear weird things like that Minions boxer from earlier, but the clothes actually looked normal. Even Izaya wouldn't want to be caught in the act of petty theft. 

He looked curiously into the shopping bags under the bed, which contained various kinds of food and supplies. Izaya had bought enough for both of them to last at least a few days, and the bags did seem to be a bit heavy for someone who had to walk with crutches. Shizuo wondered how the flea carried them, not to mention the clothes he stole! Maybe his legs weren't as bad as the grimace sometimes Izaya let show on his face seemed to suggest. Shizuo wouldn't put it past Izaya to lie about his conditions so that he could manipulate people around him. But he was in a wheelchair when they ran into each other… Shizuo stopped his train of thoughts. The flea had managed to hold his own against him for ten years, why couldn't he handle a couple of shopping bags? 

He took a box of dumplings out of one of the two bags, which turned out to be stuffed with potatoes. Shizuo, having consumed his fair share of Russian cuisine in the past few days, started to notice the Russians’ zeal for potatoes. The dumplings didn’t taste half bad, but he couldn’t suppress the longing for a rich, creamy and savory bowl of ramen. Shizuo finished his meal in silence, his mind wandering into a clutter of unrelated thoughts, none of them significant enough to linger for longer than three seconds. 

Sitting on the worn-out sofa near the window that couldn’t be closed all the way, Shizuo pondered the absurdity of the situation. What was he even thinking when he jumped out to cover Izaya like that? Must have been some sort of stupid instinct. But it felt wrong, really wrong. His instinct should be throwing the heaviest object in his vicinity at Izaya, not protecting him, even if right now they had no choice but to stick together in this accursed journey. Shizuo wanted to think that he had considered the consequences if Izaya had gotten hurt, but he knew it wasn’t true. Every gesture of Izaya, every word coming out from his mouth still sent a rush of mindless rage and murderous intent to Shizuo’s brain, but how come his most loathed human being could be in the same room with him, sleeping soundlessly as if he weren’t wary of Shizuo in the slightest? He was almost tempted to wake Izaya and shake an explanation out of him, but even Shizuo couldn’t wrap his head around why he wasn’t doing anything to the flea. Maybe he has finally overcome the greatest challenge, namely his animosity towards Izaya. Maybe from now on he could even begin to ignore the damn pest. Shizuo scoffed. As if. 

He lit a cigarette, all this thinking has tired his brain out. Sinking into the sofa, he felt a pressure on his still stinging back, but didn’t sit straight up, too tired for more reasons than he could fathom. Izaya squirmed under the comforter and hacked a few dry coughs. He raised his head from the pillow, groaning in a voice groggy with sleep. 

“Shizu-chan, out.” 

Scowling, Shizuo walked over to the bed, leaned down enough to release a puff of smoke on Izaya’s face, who then buried his head into the comforter and coughed again. Shizuo left the room pleased with himself and went down to the hall to enjoy the rest of his nicotine fix. 

The lingering odor of cigarettes invaded Izaya’s nostrils and sent forth a wave of nausea. He cursed the brute from whom one could never expect decency, and tried to curl up into himself, but his legs hurt when he moved them. Still very drained, Izaya wanted nothing more than going back to sleep, but now that he was awake, all symptoms of sickness that had been a mere discomfort before started getting too apparent for him to ignore. His limbs turned into blocks of lead and a dull ache slowly spread through every joint in his body. He felt cold and shivery, though he wasn’t sure if it was the result of his fever or the lack of a heater in this room. Izaya reached inside the paper bag on the bedside table and took out the thermometer he had bought along with the painkillers and gauze rolls. Closing his lips around the tip of the thermometer, Izaya shut his eyes in an attempt to alleviate the dizziness and flinched when the device started beeping half a minute later. It was a low-grade fever of 38°C, but still rising, as he was trembling like a newborn lamb under the comforter and his parka, his body unable to generate heat fast enough to fight off the cold damp air shrouding the room like a heavy fog. Izaya stole a glance at the other comforter still folded neatly on the other side of the bed, quickly gave up the idea flashing through his mind. He would consider himself incredibly lucky if Shizuo didn't commit homicide upon the sight of his lifelong nemesis snuggling into his blanket. 

All attempts to get more rest ending in vain, Izaya, who decided he had had enough of being frozen to death and smothered by the nauseating smell of cigarettes, put on his coat and struggled to get out of bed. His vision swam and his legs nearly gave out when he put the crutches under his arms, but Izaya proceeded to walk out of the room anyway. Surely he could manage to go downstairs and ask for an extra blanket. This simple task, however, proved to be quite daunting, as his limbs weren't cooperating the way they should. He couldn't get a firm grip on the crutches, his legs have stopped being legs and decided to be cooked noodles instead. It was too late to go back, and he would be miserable there anyway, so Izaya kept moving forwards while making a point to ignore the funny tingling sensation emerging from the left side of his face. When he finally made his way down to the hall, Shizuo was smoking leisurely on the sofa in the corner. He shot a look of contempt at Izaya, which was returned with nothing. 

Having a conversation shouldn’t be this hard. Muddled brain, stiff tongue, trembling knees. Simple words in Russian spoken by the receptionist were almost indecipherable. Warm yellow light supposed to be comforting dived through his skull like knives. Izaya managed to articulate himself eventually, and the employee disappeared somewhere, hopefully to get him the blanket he needed. A wave of wretchedness overcame Izaya, sapped him of the last bit of strength he had left. He collapsed on the floor unannounced, barely conscious. A few moments later, a hand shook his shoulder violently and a booming voice calling his name pierced his eardrums as someone hovered over him. 

“Shizu-chan… Don’t shout.”

He pleaded, but his voice must have been inaudible, because Shizuo didn’t stop until Izaya cracked his eyes open. The brute grabbed his left arm and forcefully yanked him up, which caused a streak of pain to shoot straight up his spine and made him wonder if his nerves have been damaged yet again. Shizuo tried to place the crutches under his arms, but Izaya could hardly keep himself from tripping over, his face planted on the black fabric of Shizuo’s shirt, and he prepared himself mentally for the unavoidable fall when the brute undoubtedly would push him away. The fall never came. Instead, Izaya felt himself being picked up, voices around him blending into a muffled echo from a distant place. 

Shizuo looked at the small form in his arms with confusion. Izaya was ghastly pale, brow knitted in a pained expression, hands clutching onto Shizuo’s shirt as if his life depended on it. Holding a blanket, the Russian receptionist picked up the crutches and followed Shizuo into the elevator. She asked him in English what had happened to Izaya, but Shizuo could only shake his head. The flea had suddenly keeled over in front of the counter, and no amount of “What’s wrong with you?” shouted into his face could get any response out of him, except for a weak and unintelligible mumble that he struggled to let out. He couldn’t help but take notice of the weight (or lack thereof) in his arms. Izaya has always been a bean sprout bastard, so that shouldn’t come as a surprise, but he was much more scrawny than Shizuo had thought, skeletal even. 

He dropped Izaya on the bed, didn’t see the way his lips tightened to prevent the escape of a whimper, as the room was quite dark. The receptionist leaned the crutches against the wall, approached the bed to ask Izaya something, to which he muttered a whisper in response. She gave Shizuo a nod, politely told him to contact the reception if they needed anything before leaving the room. 

Being left alone with Izaya, Shizuo, unsure what to do, stood there awkwardly for a moment. He decided to turn on the lamp on the bedside table to take a look at his suffering companion, then once again was dumbfounded when Izaya scrunched his face in pain. 

“Are you having a stroke?”, asked Shizuo in bewilderment. 

“Migraine. Turn the light off,” Izaya groaned. 

Shizuo did as told and roughly threw the blankets to cover the flea’s writhing form. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t been affected in the least by the sight of his archenemy on the verge of passing out. Staring at Izaya curling up into himself and hiding his face under the blankets, Shizuo was at a total loss.

“Is there anything you need?”, he asked hesitantly.

Only met with silence, Shizuo considered giving Izaya’s shoulder a light shake, but in the end he did nothing. Maybe the flea was already asleep, what good would it do to wake him up? Shizuo decided to leave him be. He wasn’t sure whether one could sleep a migraine off, but normal people wouldn’t die from having one, would they? Then again, what did Shizuo know about being normal? The closest to a migraine he’s ever got to experience was a hangover headache, which definitely was a far cry from what Izaya was currently living through. 

Getting over the initial shock of being a witness to something he’s never seen before, Shizuo started thinking about the signs of sickness that Izaya might have shown in the last few days, but could come up with nothing, except for the fact that he barely ate, which was in itself nothing to be suspicious of, as the flea never looked the gluttonous type. Quite the contrary, the flea bastard had the appearance of exactly… that, a heinous pest with twig-like legs who jumped around with incredible speed, always slipped out of Shizuo’s reach. Well, up to a certain point of time, anyway. Skinny as he was, Izaya has never evoked an image of fragility. He was a slippery bastard that deserved a thorough beating, has always been and would never be anything more than that. 

Even so, Shizuo couldn’t ignore the strange feeling bubbling in his chest. Whatever was ailing Izaya must be rather serious, because he has never shown such a clear expression of pain before. This was the flea who challenged Shizuo to a one-on-one fight after being clobbered like a baseball by a steel beam, whose shoulders were shaking with laughter when he got stabbed and threatened at gunpoint. Could he be the same person as the emaciated man right here, who couldn't stand on his own because his head hurt so bad, who looked like a lifeless ragdoll cradled in his enemy's arms? Shizuo almost felt the urge to pull the blanket off Izaya's face to make sure, but also didn’t want to see the evidence of agony etched on the man’s features. 

*

Izaya tried to drown the pounding pain in darkness, but the pressure around his temple only crushed down on him harder and harder like a constantly tightening helmet, threatening to pop his eyes out of their sockets. Tendrils of nausea creeped up his oesophagus, dizziness came in waves. The bed was a rocking boat in the ocean and Izaya a miserable victim of seasickness. He wondered if throwing up would make him feel better, but he would most likely not make it to the bathroom, not when fever chills have reduced his muscles to an excruciatingly achy mess. He hasn’t had a migraine attack in a while, but if there was one thing he still remembered, it would be the helplessness of the entire experience. Painkillers and cold compresses were useless, he could only hope for the mercy of sleep to befall him. Indeed, there was a silver lining to everything, as Shizuo was much more of a still sleeper than expected, and Izaya was so exhausted that even his tormenting migraine couldn’t keep him awake for long. 

Eyes closed, he drifted into a slumber, a shiver passing over his body. Little did he know even temporary relief wasn’t so easy to obtain. A chain of nightmares pulled him deeper and deeper into a quagmire he had no chance of escaping. He transformed into a fly trapped in a spiderweb, silky white threads tightening around him. The more he squirmed, the quicker strength seemed to leave him. Ice crystals started forming on the threads, and soon enough the frost would spread to where he was stuck on the web. As Izaya resigned to his fate and let himself be engulfed in cold white darkness, he found himself, still in his fly disguise, being hurled straight into the gaping trap of a carnivorous plant in the familiar biology clubroom. 

The sequence of disturbing images whirled into a mad dance in Izaya’s fever-addled mind. Every time he tried to wake himself up, extreme fatigue would weigh heavily on his eyelids and drag him into a new abyss of unsettling nightmares. An unbearable pressure placed itself on his chest, which he wanted so badly to push away, but his arms seemed to be paralyzed. With a sudden jerk, he turned his stiff neck to the side and gasped for breath, his head spinning and Izaya thought he was still dreaming until the return of his ferocious migraine informed him of the opposite. He slowly sat up, pressing the heel of palm on his burning forehead and struggled to get out of bed, so as to splash some cold water on his face and hopefully wash the remnants of weary dreams off his brain. The headache was killing him, but a restless sleep that made him feel like drowning wasn’t necessarily better. 

Izaya never made it to the bathroom, however, as his knees crumbled under him the moment he began to walk. For the second time that day, he sagged into a lump on the floor, almost blacked out from the awful pain in his head, his legs and everywhere else. Taking in ragged breaths, Izaya forced himself to sit up. The raging fever tore through his brain and impeded his ability to grasp understanding. He suddenly didn’t know where he was, why he couldn’t stand up, whether his eyes were open or not. Everything was besieged in darkness, a darkness so unnatural it couldn’t be a mere natural phenomenon brought forth by night-time. Why couldn’t he make out a shape of anything in front of him? Izaya panicked, but set the matter aside, for there was one thing that needed to be done. 

Run. 

He had to flee before the monster came to finish the job. 

The beast had swung the metal beam and struck Izaya like a ball, which explained the searing pain spreading through every fiber of his being. He must have hit his head somewhere, and his temporary loss of vision was probably caused by the shock. 

There it was, the sound of glass breaking. The beast was so near, so near, and Izaya must get up this instant. He had to, else it would be all over. 

But his legs didn’t move. 

A wave of pain and withering heat was devouring him, as if a volcano had emerged from the ground and slowly swallowed him whole, but now wasn’t the time to care about that. 

The monster was coming. Izaya could hear his footsteps. 

Eyes still covered by a veil of darkness, he didn’t see a thing, and yet he could tell from his instinct alone that the shadow of a blond man was approaching him.

He knew the end was coming, and it would be fine to be killed by the detestable monster, if that meant Izaya could carve into the world how beastly of an existence Shizuo Heiwajima was. 

But he wouldn’t go down without a fight. 

Trembling in pain and anticipation, he pulled a knife out of his pants pocket, pointed it in the direction of the shadow that he couldn’t see, but somehow sensed that it was there. Izaya slashed the dark figure hovering over him with his knife in a blind motion, but only managed to cut through the air. He struggled on in a feverish and muddled way. The blade didn’t even touch Shizuo, and even if it did, it wouldn’t get through even an inch of his skin. Izaya knew that better than anyone, despite his disoriented state, for the impression of the beast’s brute strength had deeply ingrained itself in Izaya's mind as something that set the existence known as Shizuo Heiwajima apart from humanity, something that would inevitably lead to the destruction of everything, including Izaya himself. 

And yet, he fought and fought, fully aware of the inescapable doom hanging over him. 

The moment finally arrived, to nobody’s surprise. A strong hand grabbed Izaya’s wrist and took his knife away. So that was it. He thought as he was pushed onto the ground, waiting for the final blow to strike. A sense of relief quickly washed over him. Maybe his head would stop hurting when Shizuo smashed his skull. He couldn’t be sure though, what if the pain would follow him even after death? He hadn’t been dead before, there was no way he would have known… 

Izaya heard his name being called in an urgent manner. The voice sounded as if it were wrapped tightly in layers and layers of fog, but he would recognize it anywhere. He opened his eyes, this time not to darkness, but a warm orange light illuminating Shizuo’s face looming over his own. His brows knitted in what seemed to be a look of concern, and there was a hint of worry in his voice, which Izaya could only vaguely hear. If he weren’t so distracted by the heat and weakness currently consuming him, he would have laughed at himself and this ridiculous dream. The fight he had lived through an uncountable number of times in his flashbacks was realistic to the point of being traumatic, but there was nothing strange about having recurrent dreams of an unsettling event that actually happened. It was but a coping mechanism. The more he unloaded his trauma into the realm of dreams, the less frequently he had to deal with it in real life. But this, this was spiraling out of control. The beast looking at him with distress in his eyes? There must be a limit to absurdity.

Shizu-chan in his dream yelled at him to snap out of it. Izaya looked him straight in the eyes and told him to get out of his head. Then he closed his eyes shut, hoping the illusion would go away. 

*

Shizuo was freaking out. Due to the unnatural strength and flaring temper that he was cursed with, not many things on the green Earth could faze him. In most cases, it was him who scared people off. And yet, there was no denying of the slight panic settling in his stomach as Izaya went unconscious, heat rolling off him in waves. Shizuo didn’t need to touch him to know the other man was running a debilitating fever. 

He put Izaya on the bed, tried to wake him up and make him take one of those aspirins in the bottle on the nightstand, but no matter how many times Shizuo shook his shoulders and called his name, Izaya wouldn’t wake. It didn’t look like he was fast asleep, his face was contorted in pain and his cheeks flushed an unhealthy dark red. Shizuo felt like a lost child in a grocery store, his contempt for Izaya temporarily blurred by confusion and helplessness. For a moment, he did nothing but sit by the bedside and stare at Izaya’s ashen face. As he finally took notice of a wet stickiness on his cheeks, Shizuo touched them, slightly startled when he saw his own fingers smeared with blood. In normal circumstances, the sight of knives (especially Izaya’s) would be enough to make Shizuo snap, but not today, even though the flea had managed to cut him. 

Shizuo washed his face in the unlit bathroom. The knife had only scratched his skin. None of the sharpness normally present in Izaya’s movement was there in his earlier attack. He was like a desperate madman waving his knife frantically, lest anyone come near him. It was as if he had lost control over his body and mind altogether. He looked _scared_. 

Shizuo laid a damp washcloth on Izaya’s forehead, who was lying limp under the blankets. When his hand brushed over Izaya’s hot cheeks, Shizuo’s knuckles were slightly dampened with tears. It was strange to see the flea without his perpetual nasty sneer, so vulnerable, defenseless and small, not much unlike a badly wounded animal. Shizuo had to turn away before the sight overwhelmed him with a flood of thoughts and feelings that he didn’t know what to do with. 

He didn’t know anything about Izaya, didn’t care to, never wanted to. Even now, he wished he hadn't known why Izaya behaved the way he did. It would be easy to shift the blame on whatever illness driving him to a terrifying delirious state, but Shizuo wasn't stupid, nor was he a liar. He knew he was the monster haunting Izaya in his nightmare, even without the man telling him to "get out of his head". 

Shizuo sat there quietly, occasionally replacing the damp cloth when it got warm from fever heat. Memory of the fight roared in his mind, drowning out the howling wind leaking into the room through the broken window. The wheel of thoughts only stopped spinning when the crease eased on Izaya’s forehead and his breathing evened out. Shizuo turned off the table lamp and let darkness hang on his heart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah... How I love a miserable Izaya...


	3. dawn

Izaya didn’t feel at all well-rested when he woke up, sickness and scattering remains of nightmares clinging to him like plastic food wrap. There was an improvement, however, finally he could think with his head after what seemed like an eternity, although slowly. He sat up, giving the white washcloth falling on his laps a puzzled look. He must have been stronger than he thought if he had had enough energy to go all the way to the bathroom and fetch this, but he had no memory of doing such a thing. The mental image of Shizuo nursing him made Izaya’s stomach flip in disgust, yet he bit his lips, fighting the urge to crack up. The beast was sleeping soundly on his stomach, unkempt blond hair tousled on the pillow. He looked peaceful and almost adorable like this, with no furrowing brow and no purple vein popping on his temple. For one fleeting moment, Izaya humored the idea of doing something  _ fun _ , but a sudden rush of nausea reminded him of two uncomfortable facts. One, he was still pretty sick. Two, throwing up on Shizuo’s face, while fitting his ideal of fun perfectly, entailed great consequences he didn’t prepare himself for.

Izaya slogged to the bathroom and emptied the content of his stomach into the toilet, which contained nothing but biles because he hadn’t eaten anything for a whole day. Cringing from the awful taste in his mouth, he felt like he might throw up until his body shriveled into a dry corpse, but the mere thought of his pathetic state exposed for Shizuo to see helped him summon enough strength to take a shower and tend to other matters of personal hygiene. By the time he dragged himself to the sofa, Izaya had overexerted himself to the point of exhaustion, his temperature elevating once again to his utter dismay. He didn’t have any appetite, hadn’t for the past few days, but he forced himself to eat, realizing he wouldn’t get any better if he didn’t take care of himself. 

While looking down at the sandwich he couldn’t even taste, Izaya noticed a bruise on his wrist which hadn’t been there before. He paid it no mind at first, as he did all injuries of no consequence like this, but something about the bruise held his gaze in place. A fragment of last night’s dream shattered like glass, the troubled look on Shizuo’s face as he held him down floating behind Izaya’s eyelids. The tremble passing through his hands wasn’t caused by the cold or fever chills. He put the half-eaten sandwich down on the small coffee table and slowly crossed his legs. A flash of white, hot pain flared in his legs and spine, leaving him numb. During three years of acquaintance with the pain, Izaya has learned to put it to good use. In the presence of bodily agony, he could forget what he didn’t want to remember. Right now, he could kill the desire to run away from Shizuo despite being the very one who had roped him into this journey through the vice of deception, could even pretend the beastly man hadn’t seen what Izaya didn’t want him to see. 

*

Shizuo watched Izaya from the bed. The man was drowning in an oversized white sweatshirt, fur-lined parka draped over his shoulders. His thin, pale fingers wrapped around the sandwich, which he nibbled on slowly like a pitiful rat and didn’t even finish. He turned his head to the window, a wistful gaze in his eyes, which were puffy and red as if he had been crying for a long time. Shizuo could only surmise all this, for the figure on the sofa was just dimly visible in the murky morning light, the shape of his nose etching a faint line in the shadow as Izaya showed his side profile. 

_ At least he ate something.  _ Shizuo thought, drowsiness washing over him. When the soft thumping sound of crutches hitting the carpeted floor reached his ears and the mattress slightly dipped, Shizuo was asleep again. 

He woke up to a loud peal of thunder. The room was dark, although Shizuo felt like he had slept well into the morning. Leaving the embrace of a warm blanket, he shuddered and walked to the window. Violent flurries of snow burying everything in white yesterday were replaced by foul grey raindrops. Unable to wash away the snow due to the abysmally low temperature, they joined the snow to form blocks of hardened ice on the ground. The humidity seeped into the already freezing room, placing moisture on chilled skin. When Shizuo redirected his gaze to the bed, the lying form buried under layers of comforters was stirring in his sleep. He quietly walked over to check up on Izaya, but changed his mind and went to the bathroom instead. 

Shizuo dilly-dallied with his morning routine, then strolled downstairs for a smoke. He took a long drag, let the cigarettes work their magic and quiet his mind, but they didn’t. Maybe this simple trick could only be utilized in case of anger. His head was a mess demanding to be disentangled, but if Izaya intruded each and every of his passing thoughts, Shizuo didn’t want anything to do with them. He was no stranger to this experience, however. How could he keep Izaya out of his mind when the flea wouldn’t pass up any chance to make his life unlivable? Even in the past three years when he was away, Shizuo was never free of the shackles that Izaya had chained him into. He couldn’t stop the strong impulse to punch whoever carried multiple phones or donned a fur-trimmed jacket in the face. Resentment swelled up in him when he passed by the building, once the construction site where they had fought each other last. The first thought crossing his mind when he boiled over with rage was always “I have to beat Izaya to a pulp”, and when it hit him that the flea might already have been dead, Shizuo had half a mind to dig up his grave, wherever it was, and kill him again. Izaya has never left Shizuo’s life, filling his thoughts with anger, hatred and violence, whether he was physically there or not. Until now, when there was an infiltration of something else. 

More people started flocking to the hall to smoke, murmuring of conversations in languages foreign to him agitated Shizuo. He retreated to the room, where Izaya was still sleeping without a sound. Shizuo let out a sigh of relief. He didn’t know what was so unnerving about interacting with the flea, but until the events of last night were flung into a morass somewhere far away, Shizuo didn’t think he was ready to look Izaya in the eye. 

He loitered around the room, then sat down on the sofa, trying to distract himself by staring at the wallpaper worn away by time and weather, the pattern of which he couldn’t even discern due to the lack of daylight. Running out of ways to occupy himself, Shizuo turned on the lamp on the nightstand to redress his wound. The gauze had stubbornly clung to his back, causing him to wince a bit at the thought of ripping his own skin off along with the bandage. It didn’t cause him any pain though, unsurprisingly, so he resumed covering the burn in his unskillful way. 

A rustle of covers made him turn around. Izaya was trying to prop himself up on his elbow, and Shizuo hurriedly looked away, as if averting his eyes from a monstrous mistake, but a hoarse voice from behind his back was already heard. 

“Let me.” 

Shizuo turned to look at Izaya, whose all colors were drained from his face, dark circles resting under his puffy eyes. For a moment, Shizuo didn’t know what to say, and Izaya continued talking in a hollow voice. 

“Didn’t you complain about me being ungrateful to you or whatever? Let me bind that up for you.” 

“I don’t need your help,” Shizuo uttered in reply, words finally dislodged from his throat. 

“You wrapped it too tightly. You will pop your blisters,” Izaya said with a vacant look in his eyes. 

“Why do you care? Go back to sleep,” Shizuo’s voice took on an aggressive tone usually reserved for Izaya. 

“Look, I have a headache,” Izaya said, having no energy to beat around the bush, “Can we finish this up so you can turn the light off?” 

Shizuo, for once, couldn’t find it in him to tell Izaya to go die.

Izaya scooted closer to Shizuo, took the roll of white gauze in his hand and began to wrap the wound. His slender, fragile-looking fingers, reminiscent of a tiny rodent’s forepaws, sent a shiver along Shizuo’s spine whenever the fingertips happened to brush over Shizuo’s skin. How the heck could his hands be so cold, despite him ensconcing himself in a mound of blankets for half a day? Shizuo wondered, couldn’t help but be distracted by Izaya’s trembling hands (though his movements remained rather adept and precise), and fevered breaths lightly grazing against the back of his neck. 

Izaya finished the task as fast as he could, dropped his head on the pillow and squeezed his eyes shut, as if a few minutes of sitting had drained him completely. Shizuo wanted to say something, but words lingered on the tip of his tongue. He gingerly touched Izaya’s forehead with his palm, flinching at the heat radiating from it. Izaya didn’t react at all to Shizuo’s curious behavior. 

“Did you take medicine?”, Shizuo asked quietly. 

“I can’t,” Izaya muttered without looking at him. 

“Why? You’re burning up.”

“Aspirins irritate my stomach,” Izaya’s head lolled to the side as he murmured languidly. 

Shizuo frowned at the soft and honest tone in the sick man’s voice. Pulling on his shirt, he walked over to the other side of the bed, poured a glass of water and handed it to the smaller male. 

“Here, drink this.” 

Izaya opened his eyes to a sliver. A tinge of surprise emerged in his unfocused gaze, but he said nothing while propping himself up again with difficulty. Shizuo put a hand on the small of Izaya’s back to steady him as he held the glass shakily. The word “Thanks” escaped his lips in the form of a weak mumble, and Shizuo’s eyes widened ever so slightly. 

He turned off the light and settled under the blanket. It was cold, and Shizuo only had two options, either taking a nap or letting his mind wander to damnable territories involving a certain pestlike man. His choice was obvious. 

*

When he woke up from his nap, Izaya was curling up by his side, black hair brushing against Shizuo’s chest. Scent of cheap shampoo wafted in the air, and he took a full breath of it without realizing. Shizuo absentmindedly ran his fingers through strands of silky hair, thinking to himself how soft it felt, much like what one would expect from the way it looked. As his fingers traced a curve along Izaya’s ear, the face of the man he claimed to hate with his whole being rose to the surface of his mind. He could recall every feature clearly, vividly, without even trying. This was hardly a matter of surprise, considering how much time he spent visualizing Izaya’s face whenever he needed an outlet for his anger. Sometimes he thought maybe he would hate Izaya a little less if the man weren't so unnecessarily attractive. A flea would always be a flea, whatever appearance he might have, but in a world where people were so readily fooled by looks, a handsome flea was particularly dangerous. Who knew how many lives he had ruined with that confident smirk and suave demeanor of his?

Startled by his own musings, Shizuo sat up on the bed and stared at his hands, suddenly being reminded of the way Izaya’s tears clung to them last night. He couldn’t chase these annoying thoughts out of his head, no matter how hard he tried. They upsetted him, disturbed his peace of mind, made him want to cover his ears and run away. If only Celty were here to help him process whatever was going on. Being a fairy wielding magical power and all, shouldn’t she be capable of telepathy? Unfortunately, Shizuo had no one to confide in right now, so he had to make do with himself. It was as if someone had forced him into a chair and made him look at the sun right across to him. 

Izaya in a pathetic state shouldn’t affect Shizuo like it did. Naturally, the flea was the type who took good care of his health so he could effectively devote himself to his true calling, namely being a menace to the society, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t be vulnerable to illness. The fight haunted him in his sleep and had him cry out in a state of delirium, but what of it? So would any human being if they sustained injuries of that magnitude. 

That was the thing. 

Izaya was no human being. He was a pest feeding off miseries of humanity. A zombie who knew no fear, who never hesitated to fling himself into whatever got him fixated even if it killed him. He was the eye of a tornado revelling in the hullabaloo he himself instigated, distancing himself from everything, therefore could not be hurt by anything. 

Then who was the broken man in front of Shizuo yesterday?

Before he realized, Shizuo’s hand was brushing over the smooth skin of Izaya’s nape. The warmth on his fingertips was definitely that of a human. Lost in a trance, he was startled when Izaya’s voice echoed dully in the heavy air. 

“What are you doing?”, he asked wearily. 

Shizuo pulled his hand back. 

“Thinking about snapping your neck,” he said nonchalantly, but a note of uncertainty caused an odd tremble in the way he talked. 

Shizuo was almost convinced Izaya had gone back to sleep when the dark-haired man suddenly broke the silence, the ever-present hint of mirth glinting in his groggy voice. 

“Make it quick.” 

Shizuo wondered if Izaya remembered anything about last night.

“Are you scared of me?”, Shizuo asked. 

Izaya went stiff for a moment, then shifted on the bed to look at Shizuo with eyes clouded by fever haze. 

“I don’t know”, his voice vacant again, “What do you want me to say?” 

Shizuo didn’t say anything in response. He studied the flea in silence, trying to find a clue that could help him unknot his tangle of thoughts, but found nothing. Izaya’s expression remained placid like the surface of a lake on a windless day. Maybe he was still a fearless zombie like Shizuo knew him to be, and it was silly of him to get so worked up over this. Maybe Izaya actually didn’t know it. He has been lying to people his whole life, he could deceive himself just as easily. 

If so, the tears spilling in moments he had no control of himself must have been the truth. 

Izaya gathered the comforters close to himself as shivers racked his frame, and Shizuo draped his own blanket on top of Izaya without thinking. 

Silence fell on them again. For a while, the only thing to be heard was the sound of the rain tapping on the window. 

Shizuo sat still, powerlessness sweeping over him. It wasn’t the first time he felt like this. He wasn’t so clueless to the point of being oblivious to the consequences of his violent ways. All he has ever been good for was to destroy. Nothing new about it. 

Still, Shizuo couldn’t explain the vague sense of loss hanging above his head like a cloud that refused to be chased away by any wind. He dropped his face to the knees, feeling small and abandoned. Perhaps it was the weather that built this illusion in his head, that this here was the end of the world, everyone else had left, and he was a boy who had just buried his dog. 

A small voice called him from the other side of the fog, and Shizuo looked up from his depressing reverie.

“Shizu-chan, is your hand busy?” 

Izaya sounded weak, and Shizuo wondered if it was the fever talking. He laid his palm on Izaya’s forehead, and sure enough, that temperature has gone nowhere but up. The delirious man put his hand on top of Shizuo’s, pulled it down so that Shizuo’s hand covered his eyes completely. 

“Shizu-chan, stop being so loud”, Izaya murmured in his half-sleep state and continued before Shizuo could interject, “Your thinking. Turn it off.” 

The fever was definitely messing with his brain, Shizuo knew it, but couldn’t help pondering if Izaya had acquired psychic power during his febrile episode. That was indeed a very unpleasant idea. 

He left his hand on Izaya’s face, as he figured Izaya might want it for comfort or whatever, but it reminded him of those movie scenes where one closed a dead person’s eyes with his hand. This, too, wasn’t pleasing to think about...

“Shizu-chan, I’m not dying.” 

Izaya’s sudden mumble scared Shizuo out of his wits, but he didn’t dare retract his hand, for fear that Izaya might turn to him with his eyes all zombie-white and call him a dimwit in his usual maliciously mocking fashion. 

A few moments later, Shizuo laughed quietly to himself, though there wasn’t anything remotely funny about the whole situation. His head was still a mess, his feet might never reach the bottom of the enigma with the name Izaya Orihara, but the loneliness was lifted somewhat. When Shizuo looked down at Izaya’s face, he could see the man’s mouth slightly quirking up in an amused smile, but it might only be Shizuo’s imagination. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading until the end, everyone!! I was suddenly... very emotional by the end of this fic, and I think that showed in my writing. But oh man, writing Shizuo as the emotionally intelligent man he is made me SO happy. I'm glad my first contribution to the fandom I dearly love turned out to be quite decent (?? I hope I'm not the only one who think so lol)

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, if there's something in this fic vaguely suggesting that there's something plotty going on, believe me, there isn't. All I did was putting all of my favorite tropes in a blender and dumping the end result on here. 
> 
> That's cheating, I know. You can't skip the entire setting and just write a fic from the middle!! Except... you can? 
> 
> Anyways, if it's not clear yet, in this fic Shizuo and Izaya are somehow stuck with each other --- in Russia, 3 years after their final battle. Nobody has any idea about the events preceding this fic. Until that moment of enlightenment arrives, please excuse me while I work on this painfully elaborate angsty sickfic that nobody ever asked for.


End file.
